


The Hardest Blows

by CaptainHoney



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Actor!Steve, Alternate Universe, Blood, Boxer!Bucky, Boxing, Hollywood, M/M, PTSD, Pinky Pinkerton is here briefly too, Stucky - Freeform, Ugh, Violence, fake marriage trope if you squint, here be swears, how do you tag for boxing???, intentionally open-ended, people get punched in the face and are bad at feelings, sport violence, this is a hot mess and I don't know what to tag it with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 05:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11074557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainHoney/pseuds/CaptainHoney
Summary: Bucky was headed for glory as an Olympic champion boxer, before WWII changed everything. Now he's washed up and dead eyed, rattling around Brooklyn and fighting in illegal bare knuckle matches.Years after the war has ended an actor called Steve Rogers sees him fight. Months later, Bucky gets a call inviting him to L.A. to work on a film, and he finds something worth fighting for.





	The Hardest Blows

 

Time out.

Ten years pass.

Fighting bodies have gone to grass.

Some lie under grass,

Rotten:

Even their names have been forgotten.

 

Fresh blood,

New hopes

Inside the old ropes.

Kids that wet their short pants

Ten years back get their chance:

Giving,

Taking,

Champions in the making.

 

A fighter’s life is short at best.

No time to waste,

No time to rest.

The spotlight shifts,

The clock ticks fast;

All youth becomes old age at last.

All fighters weaken.

All fighters crack.

All fighters go –

And they never come back.

 

Well,

So it goes:

Time hits the hardest blows.

 

-from _The Set-Up_ , Joseph Moncure March

 

* * *

 

 

Every town in war time is a ghost town, and only ghosts came back. That’s what Bucky thought every time he caught himself in the mirror and was shocked by his grey cheeks and dead eyes: _I am a ghost among the living_.

 

There were still signs of the war in Brooklyn, of course, but they were superficial: propaganda posters, ration lists in shop windows, faces that had seemed full before the war looking pinched and drawn. But the buildings were whole. The roads were the same as ever. The bridge still stood. There were no holes in the skyline, no piles of bloodied concrete in the streets. Years slipped by and the streets were full of children’s faces, too young to know fear in their parents’ eyes.

 

Bucky haunted them, he and all the other dead-eyed men.

 

Bucky had been training for the Olympics when the draft letter had fallen in his lap. When he returned he’d found his boxing gloves coated in dust. He left them that way, and the dust grew thicker, until the splatter of blood from his last fight was almost completely obscured.

 

Half the men he’d come up with were gone, and younger ones had taken their places. The young men fought like they were trying to make up for missing the war. The ones who’d been there tried mostly to forget.

 

Bucky couldn’t forget, but more than that, he didn’t want to. He needed reminders, something to say he’d been there, seen what he’d seen, done what he’d done.

 

He fell into underground boxing. It was rougher, bloodier. He fought bare-knuckled in warehouses and alleys, a champion of Irish stand down, going from his job on the docks to the fight, to home, with blackened ribs to soak in a tub of Epsom salts and fall into exhausted sleep.

 

He could tune everything else out until his memories were a wave of white noise that he rode into every punch. He could keep hitting, over and over, connecting flesh to flesh, in tight and close so the other man was pressed against him, their sweat and blood mingling, feeling his opponent weaken and fail, and then… he could stop. He could do violence without killing. He could do it because he wanted to and not because he was following orders, in a neighbourhood that had always been home.

 

He was good at it. He made money. Other people made money betting on him. He threw fights occasionally, when a bookie slipped him a little extra. He fought three or four times a week at different venues, and spent the rest of his time as a ghost, dying a little more each day.

 

***

 

**Brooklyn, 1949**

 

New York stank with the sludge of winter melting into the fresh slop of spring. It was an unseasonably warm night, and the abandoned Red Hook factory was packed so tight the very walls seemed to be sweating.

 

‘Who’s that guy in the front row?’ Bucky asked, motioning with his head. ‘He looks familiar.’

 

‘He’s a bigshot movie star, hangs out with that Stark guy Gabe brought.’ Pinky made a face. ‘I hardly think a guy like that would be too impressed with our shabby little outfit.’

 

‘You’d be surprised by what guys like that are into,’ Bucky said darkly. ‘It makes them happy to watch guys like us beat the shit out of each other.’

 

‘Guess you’d better give him a show then,’ Pinky said with a wink, ‘and don’t go pulling any of that shit you’ve been pulling lately. Give the toff a decent fight.’

 

‘Get off my balls, Pinky.’

 

‘Get the bookies off mine, Buck.’

 

Bucky sneered at him and stepped into the ring. The man was staring at him with interest. His companion kept clapping him on the shoulder and waving a wad of cash around. Bucky snorted; the guy was just asking to get himself robbed. He snarled at the movie star and turned to his opponent.

 

 _May as well give this guy a show_.

 

He postured a little, doing the kind of showy shadow boxing that he used to do on the professional circuit. Most of the crowd was eating it up, but the movie star just smirked.

 

 _Guess a guy whose job is bullshit can tell it when he sees it_.

 

The announcer started the fight and Bucky decided to stop messing around. He leapt forward and struck lightning-fast, a one-two jab to the ribs. His opponent managed to block the second but not the first. They circled each other, then he struck again, was blocked, danced out and back, blocked a blow to the face. They pressed their foreheads together and snarled, spinning, and the referee pulled them apart.

 

Bucky landed a couple of blows and his opponent fell back, was pushed up by the wall of the crowd, used the momentum to launch himself at Bucky. He dodged and a roar went up from the crowd as his opponent slammed into them again and was bounced back. He got a few strikes in and this time Bucky was knocked back against the wall of screaming, sweating flesh.

 

For a moment he felt a pair of strong hands on his upper arms and looked up to see a pair of bright blue eyes, before the crowd surged him back into the ring. He struggled to regain his balance and his opponent gained a few more hits before he could block, push back, punch back.

 

They broke apart, circled each other. The crowd was a dull roar over the blood pulsing in his ears, jeers and cheers mingling with the sharp scents of blood and smoke and sweat. For a few beats all Bucky could hear was the sound of his own heart, his own breath. Then he was tackled around the middle and the crowd parted for them as they fell and rolled. Bucky spun and pinned the other man beneath him, swung punch after punch at his chest and head. His opponent was able to block most of them but still more landed, until he stopped being able to block and the referee was dragging Bucky off and raising his arm in victory. He scanned the crowd for a pair of blue eyes, but they were gone.

 

***

 

Bucky pushed through the crowd, ignoring Pinky’s calls and the claps on his back and shoulders, the jeers and congratulations. He grabbed his shirt and jacket and stumbled out into the alley, taking in gasping breaths of fresh air. He pulled his shirt over his head and fumbled around in his jacket for his cigarettes.

 

‘Here.’ A hand appeared in front of his face, holding a cigarette in slender fingers.

 

‘Thanks.’

 

‘You’re welcome.’

 

Bucky looked up; it was the blue-eyed man, the movie star. He pulled a silver lighter out of his pocket and stepped closer to light Bucky’s cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame. He was close enough that Bucky could smell his aftershave.

 

‘That was a good fight.’ His voice was deep and warm.

 

‘Thanks.’

 

He hadn’t moved back, was still so close. His collar was damp with sweat and there was a crushed carnation in the pocket of his sports coat. The aftershave smell was mingled with the smell of the crowd, the scent of whiskey and stale sweat. Cigarette smoke curled between them, making his face seem hazy. His eyes were blue, so blue.

 

Bucky took a step back.

 

‘I don’t normally go to the fights in L.A. but my friend insisted,’ the man blurted awkwardly. ‘He’s much more into this sort of thing than I am, but it can be difficult to say no to Howard. He has a way of just… talking at you until you agree with him. Oh, I’m sorry, I never asked your name.’

 

‘Bucky. Bucky Barnes.’ They shook hands.

 

‘I’m Steve Rogers.’ He snorted. ‘You probably already know that.’

 

‘I’ve seen your pictures, didn’t know your name.’

 

‘That’s something, I guess.’

 

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

 

Steve shrugged. ‘I’m grown accustomed to people knowing more about me than I know myself.’

 

‘Sounds rough,’ Bucky replied. It came out more sarcastic than he’d intended, but Steve laughed.

 

‘I know I don’t really have much to complain about. All I do is make pictures, it’s a pretty easy life. The studio wouldn’t even let me serve during the war. Said I’d do more good “boosting morale.”’

 

‘You didn’t serve? Big guy like you?’ Bucky sneered. ‘Guess you movie stars really do lead charmed lives.’

 

‘I did my bit,’ Steve glowered, then slumped his shoulders. ‘I couldn’t have served anyway. Asthma, tuberculosis, a hole in my heart… I couldn’t do half the things I pretend to do on screen.’

 

‘Count yourself lucky.’ It came out angrier than he’d meant it.

 

Steve gave a wry smile. ‘I do, if you’d believe it. Still, I like to think I managed to make a difference.’

 

‘Yeah? How’s that?’

 

‘The films I made, men enlisted because of them. That’s something,’ he said.

 

‘You think a bunch of kids got themselves blown up because of you? That’s not something to be proud of.’

 

Steve inhaled thoughtfully. ‘The troop numbers-‘

 

‘Bullshit.’ Bucky shook his head. ‘Wars aren’t won by bits of cannon fodder sticking holes in other bits of cannon fodder. Troop numbers don’t mean shit. _None_ of it does.’

 

‘It doesn’t mean anything to you that you fought for your country?’

 

‘Would it mean anything to you if I’d _died_ for my country?’ He stabbed Steve in the chest with an angry finger. ‘You and all your little Hollywood pals, would you have had a wake for Bucky Barnes, killed in action? Asked for a moment’s silence on the set of your next big picture? What about for all the kids who enlisted because of your pictures?’

 

‘I just meant-‘

 

‘I know what you meant.’ He exhaled two plumes of smoke from his nostrils. ‘Forget it. Nice meeting you, pal. Maybe you can take pity on me and send me an autograph in the mail.’

 

He pulled the jacket on and stomped out of the alley, leaving Steve standing there, looking bereft.

 

***

 

Bucky woke the next morning to a pounding on the door. He opened it a crack, peering blearily into the hall.

 

‘Jeez, you look like the arse end of a camel,’ Pinky said, barging past.

 

‘You should see the other guy,’ Bucky mumbled.

 

‘I did. Even with two black eyes he’s still prettier than you.’ He tossed Bucky a small, brown bag. Bucky peeked into it; it was full of cash. ‘You took off last night before I could pay you. You’re lucky I’m an honourable sort.’

 

‘I was gonna come collect later.’

 

‘Sure you were, Buck. It’s already after noon.’

 

‘You know I was. What the hell are you really doing here?’ he growled.

 

Pinky gave him a long, inscrutable look. ‘I’m here to make sure you didn’t throw yourself off the damn bridge last night, Bucky. That’s what I do now.’

 

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

 

‘It means you’re my best fighter and I’d be stupid to let you write yourself off.’ He clapped Bucky on the shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s go down to the gym. The boys want to go over last night.’

 

‘Yeah, alright. Just… give me a minute.’

 

Pinky went back into the hall while Bucky stashed the money in his mattress. He splashed some water fro on his face then leant against the sink, clutching the edge with his weight in his hands. He took two deep, shaky breaths, then a third steady one, and went out into the hall.

 

‘You gave a good fight. The bookies were happy,’ Pinky said as they went down the steps and outside. ‘That Stark gent kept placing huge bets on who’d get the next punch in, only he doesn’t seem to know the first thing about boxing, so a lot of people made a lot of money.’

 

Bucky snorted. ‘Tourists.’

 

‘You’re telling me. Speaking of which…’ they rounded the corner to see a tall, blonde man leaning against a red Buick outside the gym. ‘That movie gent’s been waiting to see you.’

 

‘Aw, hell, Pinky, couldn’t you’ve shouted that through the keyhole so I knew not to get out of bed?’

 

‘It was either drag your arse here or tell him where you live. I didn’t think you’d be too keen on that.’

 

‘No, no I wouldn’t,’ Bucky said flatly. ‘Next fight, I want double.’

 

‘Maybe you can get him to sponsor you.’

 

Bucky made a rude hand gesture and slumped over to where Steve waited. A few passersby were giving him curious looks, and there was a gaggle of children hanging out of an upstairs window to stare at the car. Steve barely seemed to notice; he stood motionless, as though carved from marble, as still and perfect as the image on a poster for one of his films.

 

‘You know what I do isn’t exactly legal, right?’ Bucky huffed at him. ‘You sure your career can handle being seen in a neighbourhood like this?’

 

‘I would have waited inside, but I was worried about the car,’ Steve replied, then turned pink. ‘I didn’t mean- I don’t- I grew up in a neighbourhood like this, I wasn’t-‘

 

Bucky laughed. ‘It’s ok, I was just yanking your chain. You can come in, the car will be fine.’

 

‘Are you sure?’

 

Bucky peered up at the kids hanging out of the window. ‘Oi! Whichever one of you keeps the best eye on this car gets a nickel, got it? Not one scratch.’

 

He bowed mockingly to Steve and gestured toward the narrow staircase leading up to the gym. Steve gave a final concerned look at the Buick and followed where directed.

 

There were a handful of other men inside. When Steve entered they dropped what they were doing to crowd around him, asking questions and striving to be noticed. He graciously signed some autographs and declined offers to go a few rounds in the ring. Pinky let Bucky and Steve into his office and closed the door, giving them some privacy.

 

‘I suppose you must be used to that kind of thing,’ Bucky drawled.

 

‘I ought to be, by now.’ Steve removed his hat and placed it over one knee, rubbing his eyes. ‘I don’t mind so much when it’s children, I suppose. But a part of me still doesn’t understand how anyone can be so interested in me.’

 

‘You certainly don’t seem like an interesting guy.’ They grinned at each other. ‘Listen, I’m sorry I got so sore at you last night, it’s just…’

 

‘It’s alright. You were right, I was out of line. And stupid.’ He spun his hat around in his hands. ‘I shouldn’t have said that thing about fighting for your country.’

 

‘You really have to drive all the way here in your fancy car to tell me that? You couldn’t have sent one of your people?’

 

Steve looked pained. ‘I don’t- I wanted to apologise in person. It’s true, I don’t have any idea what the hell you went through, and it kills me. I had friends, good friends, who died over there, and the ones who came back weren’t the same. So it kills me that I couldn’t be there, that I was stuck here making pictures while they were getting blown to pieces. You think I’m just some pampered movie star, and hell, you’re probably right, but I don’t want you thinking I don’t know how lucky I am, or that I don’t know that you went through something horrible. I forget sometimes, when I’m in my bubble, and I misspeak. But I know, I do, and I’m sorry.’

 

The brim of his hat was now horribly mangled.

 

Bucky stared at him. He felt tired, so tired, and that made him mean, and bitter, so he curled his lip and said, ‘That’s a real nice speech. Did you come up with it all on your own, or did you have someone write it down for you?’

 

‘I, uh, practiced it in the car on the way here,’ Steve replied with a sigh. ‘Look, I’m trying to do the decent thing here.’

 

‘Nobody asked you to.’

 

‘Call it easing my conscience.’ He looked down ruefully at his ruined hat. ‘I’ll get out of your hair, then.’

 

He lingered for a moment in the doorway, then left. Bucky stood in the empty office, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then he ran through the door, shrugging off his jacket as he went.

 

‘Rogers!’ he called. Steve turned. ‘Go a round with me. If you can.’

 

Steve looked down at his clothes: a cream-coloured linen suit, crisply starched, and shiny brown loafers. He grinned. ‘Go on, then.’

 

Bucky changed into a pair of shorts while Steve stripped off his shoes, jacket, waistcoat, tie and shirt. Finally he stripped off his undershirt and stood in the ring in his suit trousers and blue silk socks.

 

Bucky had seen that body before, in action movies where Steve was riding around in tanks and rescuing dames, but it was something else in person. He looked unnaturally perfect, like Apollo had mistakenly wandered into a grungy gym in downtown Brooklyn. Bucky felt like a gargoyle in comparison, twisted and mean. He felt Steve’s eyes on him, saw them resting on the ropy scars on his shoulder and torso and flicking away.

 

They wore gloves, at Steve’s insistence. The other men crowded around the ring; usually when they watched a sparring match they made a racket, but for once they were respectfully silent.

 

Steve and Bucky circled each other. They exchanged a few light blows and broke apart again, circled, met, parted, in a complicated dance. Steve was clearly holding back, and Bucky grew frustrated. He took a swing, much harder this time, and Steve barely managed to duck. He stumbled back against the ropes and Bucky closed the gap with a series of short, sharp jabs at his ribs. Steve doubled over, wheezing.

 

‘Do you need a minute?’ Bucky asked, barely keeping the mockery out of his voice.

 

Steve shook his head and pushed himself upwards. He jumped forward, swinging first with his left and then his right. Bucky caught the first in the chest and the second in the jaw. He reeled back a few paces. Steve grinned and feinted, catching Bucky in the chest again.

 

Bucky found his footing and came back with a series of rapid-fire punches to Steve’s abdomen. They split apart, panting and circling each other. They stalked each other around the ring. Steve lunged and Bucky ducked, coming back with an uppercut that took Steve in the jaw and dropped him. He was still for several heartbeats, then groaned loudly.

 

‘Alright, alright,’ Steve said, propping himself up on his elbows. ‘If I get my nose broken my agent is going to kill me.’

 

Bucky pulled off one glove and offered his hand. Steve took it; his arm was slick under Bucky’s grip. They stood for a moment, holding tight to each other’s wrists. Steve’s breath was a little raspy, like it came hard. His hand was more calloused than Bucky had expected.

 

‘Are we square?’ Steve asked, pinning him with a searching look.

 

‘Yeah. Yeah, sure, we’re square,’ Bucky replied, breaking the grip. His face felt hot.

 

Steve picked up his jacket and reached into an inner pocket, pulling out a packet of asthma cigarettes. He tapped one out quickly and slipped the packet back.

 

‘My health problems are not strictly common knowledge,’ he said quietly to Bucky. He inhaled deeply and rubbed his chest. ‘The studio isn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of the general public finding out that one of their stars is practically an invalid. I shouldn’t have told you last night, but, well… I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it quiet.’

 

‘What about all those big action scenes in your films?’

 

‘Stunt doubles.’ Steve shrugged. ‘I’m barely more than a pretty face.’

 

‘I’m not going to disagree with you there,’ Bucky said with a smile.

 

Steve laughed. ‘Fair enough. I should be getting back.’

 

‘Suit yourself.’

 

Bucky watched as he brushed the scuff marks off his trousers and began redressing. Steve took care with each step, not rushing, buttoning everything slowly and making sure it was just so. He seemed unaware of or unbothered by his surroundings. There was a hypnotic quality to his movements, the way he straightened his tie or smoothed a crease. Lastly he put on the hat with its slightly mangled brim, smiling ruefully. He gave a parting nod, and Bucky felt as though he had been under a spell which had just now broken.

 

‘It’s been a pleasure. If you’re ever in L.A. ...’

 

‘I’ll know I’ve gotten very lost.’ They shook hands.

 

‘See you round, Mr Barnes.’

 

‘Likewise.’

 

Steve did a quick lap of the gym, saying goodbye to everyone, then he left. Bucky felt suddenly insubstantial.

 

He wandered back around the block to his apartment, stopping by the drug store for a bottle of bourbon on the way.

 

***

 

Months went by. Bucky felt increasingly like he was disappearing altogether. Talk of the time a movie star visited the gym eventually died down. Fans stopped coming by to get a glimpse of where greatness had stood. More and more often Bucky would miss fights, until it was almost a shock when he actually showed up.

 

He was lying on the couch, dozing off the night before, when there was a hammering on the door. He woke with a start and rolled heavily onto the floor before stalking to the door and wrenching it open with a snarl.

 

His neighbour Mrs O’Shannassy surveyed him with a bored look. ‘There’s a call for you.’

 

‘Tell them to go hang,’ Bucky growled.

 

‘I tried that.’

 

‘Try again.’

 

‘You listen to me, James Buchanan Barnes,’ she said, jabbing him in the chest, ‘I am not your feckin’ secretary. You go down there and tell that snotty bastard to rack off all on yer damn self, or I swear to the Virgin Mary the next time my kids are sick I am locking them _all_ in here with you.’

 

Bucky gave her his best glare and stumbled down the stairs, muttering under his breath.

The entry hall of Bucky’s building had an ancient payphone in a scratched glass booth. He slammed painfully into the side of the booth and barked ‘what’ into the mouthpiece.

 

‘Mr Barnes? Is that you?’ A deep voice crackled down the line. ‘It’s Steve Rogers.’

 

‘What the hell do you want?’

 

‘Is this a bad time?’ Steve sounded uncertain.

 

‘It’s always a bad time.’ Bucky rubbed his hand across his face. ‘I figured you’d have forgotten about me by now.’

 

‘Of course not,’ he said softly, barely audible over the shaky connection. ‘Listen, Mr Barnes, I’ve got a job offer for you. I know this might seem a little out of the blue, and your manager said he hadn’t seen you in a while…’

 

‘You want me to come shine your shoes or something?’ Bucky spat.

 

‘What? No. it’s a consulting role. For a script. I’m starring in a new film about a boxer, I thought- well, maybe you could come and advise on things.’ He paused, static filling the silence. ‘I thought it would be nice to see you again.’

 

‘Why the hell would I want to do something like that?’ He asked, more shocked than trying to be mean.

 

‘ I thought we were getting along,’ Steve said, sounding hurt.

 

‘Really?’ Bucky huffed incredulously. ‘I thought I was a mean bastard and you’d be glad to see the back of me.’

 

‘Not at all. I’m sending you a plane ticket. Two o’clock next Thursday. All expenses paid.’ Steve’s voice was crisp. ‘It’s all arranged. All you have to do is show up. I promise you won’t hear from me again if you don’t, but- well, I hope you will.’

 

‘I don’t think so. But hey, maybe I’ll see you ‘round. On the big screen, or something.’ He rang off and slouched back upstairs. ‘Fucking Hollywood types.’

 

***

 

A courier arrived with a first class plane ticket the next day. It sat on the kitchen bench until midday on Thursday, drawing glares every time Bucked passed it. Finally, with two hours until the flight, Bucky found himself stuffing the ticket in his pocket and hailing a cab.

 

He was sitting in the plane before he realised what was happening.

 

‘Excuse me, I need to get off,’ he said to a passing flight attendant, scrabbling at his seatbelt.

 

‘I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to remain in your seat, we’ve just been cleared for take-off.’ She gave him a tight, plastic smile. ‘I’ll be with you once when we’re in the air to fetch you any refreshments.’

 

‘But I’ve made a mistake,’ he said desperately.

 

‘Sir, please.’ She placed a hand on his shoulder, removing it quickly with the briefest flash of distaste before the plastic smile was back. ‘If you need to arrange a return flight, they’ll be happy to help you at the airport once we reach L.A.’

 

He slid down into his seat, scowling out the window. The plane started rolling down the runway and the flight attendant hurried to her own seat. Bucky watched gloomily as New York disappeared into so many little grey blocks beneath them. Rain spattered the window as they flew into a cloud, striping the glass in crooked lines.

 

Bucky drank heavily on the flight, finally drifting off to sleep and waking with a start when they landed bumpily on the tarmac. He stumbled into the terminal with the express intention of finding a phone and demanding Steve buy him a ticket straight back to New York.

 

There were people scattered in front of the gate holding names printed on cards. A leggy blonde in a crisp, white, linen blouse and peach-coloured skirt held up a sign with _James Barnes_ in thick black capitals. Bucky sighed deeply and stopped in front of her.

 

‘I take it you’re here to stop me from turning around and getting right back on that plane again.’

 

The woman blew a bubble with shiny pink gum and smiled a plastic smile. ‘That’s the idea.’

 

‘Someone ought to tell Rogers I don’t like blondes.’

 

She pouted exaggeratedly. ‘You saying you don’t like me?’

 

‘Would you like me if you weren’t paid to be here?’ he leered at her. ‘Be honest.’

 

‘Honestly?’ She blew another bubble and popped it with a snap of her teeth. ‘You smell like a distillery and you look like a bum. But hey, I’m not into brunettes.’

 

They grinned at each other. ‘Alright, I guess if I came all this way I may as well take the opportunity to call Steve Rogers an asshole to his face.’

 

‘That’s the spirit,’ she said, tucking the name card under her arm. ‘Shall we collect your bags?’

 

‘I, um, didn’t bring any.’

 

‘Are you sure you’re the right James Barnes?’ she asked sardonically.

 

‘No. Did you want to wait with that sign another few minutes and see if he comes along, or shall we take our chances?’ He held out his arm.

 

‘I want you to know that when I roll down all the windows it’s definitely not personal,’ she said with a stunning smile and took his arm.

 

She led him out to a waiting limousine. As promised, she rolled down the windows immediately.

 

‘Welcome to Los Angeles, Mr Barnes!’ the chauffer called chirpily from the front seat. ‘You gonna be here long?’

 

‘Not if I can help it.’

 

‘Wonderful!’

 

The chauffer and the blonde woman struck up a well-rehearsed tour guide routine, keeping up a constant patter until they pulled up to a set of heavy, wooden gates set in a high, white wall. The chauffer chirped into a speaker box and the gates swung inward, revealing a long driveway lined with acacias. They pulled up to a two-story house with white stucco walls. Steve was in the driveway, leaning against a motorcycle and wiping his hands on a rag. He waved, flicking the rag over his shoulder and shielding his eyes with his hand. Standing there in the late afternoon sun, dressed in dark linen pants and a white undershirt, he looked every part the movie star.

 

‘Hello! How was your flight? Was the drive alright? Can I get you anything? Let me get your bags!’ Steve tumbled out as soon as the chauffer opened the door. He was practically bouncing on his feet with excitement.

 

Bucky lurched out of the car and leaned heavily against the door. He gave Steve a resentful look and shook his head.

 

‘He didn’t _bring_ any bags,’ the blonde said in a sing-song voice from within the car.

 

‘You didn’t bring any bags?’ Steve repeated.

 

Bucky shrugged. The blonde yanked the door shut behind him and the car’s motor thrummed into life.

 

‘Don’t you dare drive away from me,’ Bucky barked through the window.

 

‘Buh-bye, now,’ she replied, waving her salmon-coloured nails at him and winding up the window.

 

The car circled around the driveway and purred off down the hill, leaving him standing in front of the enormous house and a very perplexed Steve.

 

‘Well, here we are, then,’ Bucky muttered, half to himself.

 

‘Can I be frank with you?’ Steve said, looking him up and down.

 

‘Shoot.’

 

‘You look like shit.’

 

‘Are you surprised?’ Bucky sneered.

 

‘Yeah, I am. I knew you were struggling, but I thought you had things a little more together than this.’

 

‘You’ve known me all of two minutes, Rogers. Don’t presume to tell me what state I ought to be in.’ He smoothed his hair back self-consciously. ‘Is this your house?’

 

‘Yes,’ Steve replied, deciding to ignore the abrupt change in subject, ‘the studio was happy to put you up in a hotel, but I thought you might be more comfortable here. I apologise if that was presumptuous.’

 

‘I’m not really intending to stick around.’

 

Steve smiled, soft and a little sad. ‘That’s fine. You’re here now, though. Why don’t you let yourself relax a little?’

 

***

 

He showed Bucky to his room, which was almost twice the size of his apartment, with an equally generous ensuite. The walls and bedspread were white, and the bed frame and side tables were dark timber. The wooden floor was covered with a thick Turkish rug, matching the red curtains and throw. Above the bed was a large abstract painting, shapes and splatters in vivid yellows and reds.

 

Bucky filled the bath with steaming hot water and scrubbed himself until his skin was pink and raw. Steve had left him shaving gear. His hands trembled as he shaved more days’ worth of stubble off his face than he cared to admit. The razor nicked his cheek and a trickle of blood slid down his chin and dripped onto his chest. He stared at himself in the huge mirror, a ghost with nowhere to hide.

 

There was a knock on the door. ‘I brought you a change of clothes.’

 

Bucky opened it, letting damp air dissipate into the bedroom. They stood staring at each other for a moment.

 

‘You’re bleeding,’ Steve said softly, reaching for the drop of blood and wiping it away with his thumb. He jerked his hand back suddenly and spun away, putting the folded clothes on the end of the bed.

 

‘It’s fine, just a little nick,’ Bucky said automatically.

 

‘Come down when you’re ready, there’s dinner.’ Steve left the room without looking at him.

 

Steve had left Bucky a pair of soft grey slacks and a wide-lapelled skirt in pale blue. He put them on uncomfortably, tugging at the wide collar as though he could make it smaller by force. It felt almost disrespectful to put on his tattered work boots.

 

He could hear footsteps as he came out onto the landing. He paused at the top of the grand staircase, looking down to see Steve pacing in the lobby, wingtips clacking on the stone floor. Bucky stomped down the first couple of steps and Steve looked up with a start and a guilty expression.

 

‘You look- uh-‘

 

‘Like a real southern belle, I bet.’

 

‘Just like Scarlett O’Hara,’ Steve said with a huffy laugh. ‘You seem like a man who’s most comfortable in fatigues.’

 

‘You’ve clearly never heard of trench foot,’ Bucky remarked drily.

 

‘I’m sorry, I know the things you’ve seen-‘

 

‘It’s fine.’ He brushed past Steve. ‘So what do you Californian types eat, anyhow?’

 

He whistled low as Steve directed him into an open room with a long dining table in front of almost floor to ceiling windows. Warm light spilled out into the garden, reflecting off the surface of the swimming pool. The doorway was wide open, and the smell of jasmine and chlorine wafted through into the house. Two guests were already at the table: a beautiful redheaded woman in a navy dress and an animated man with a thin black moustache. He was talking, punctuating his sentences with jabs that made his drink slosh dangerously, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was exuding boredom so cold it seemed to block the warm air from outside.

 

‘Bucky, this is Natasha – sorry, Nelly Cooper – and this is Howard Stark. Nat’s my leading lady, and Stark’s directing.’

 

Natasha regarded Bucky with an inscrutable expression. ‘Never ask this man to keep a secret for you.’

 

‘Nelly’s just worried about the press catching wind that she’s a dirty communist,’ Howard barked, clapping her on the shoulder. ‘Like I’d let anything happen to our girl!’

 

‘Oh Mr Stark, you do make me homesick,’ she replied with a simpering smile. ‘You flap that big mouth of yours and I think, gee, maybe I _should_ go back to Mother Russia…’

 

‘She doesn’t mean it. She’s actually hopelessly in love with me,’ Howard said, winking at Bucky. ‘Say, you want a drink?’

 

‘Desperately,’ Bucky blurted.

 

‘Good man!’

 

Bucky turned and glared at Steve, who shrugged apologetically. ‘Howard wanted to have a big party to celebrate you getting here, but I figured you’d want to ease into things a bit. Still, he insisted on meeting you right away.’

 

‘Damn right I did!’ Howard said, handing Bucky a full tumbler. ‘I like to know where my money’s going. That, and I wanted to hear all your juicy war stories before anybody else goes and ruins them for me.’

 

‘I’m not sure that I-‘ Bucky started.

 

‘Don’t listen to Howard,’ Natasha interjected. ‘Trust me, you’ll be happier for it. I know I am.’

 

‘You’re lucky you make bank, kid,’ Howard grumbled good-naturedly at her.

 

‘Give him half a minute to settle in, Howard,’ Steve mumbled, looking embarrassed.

 

They sat down, Steve next to Natasha and Bucky across from them. Howard had made himself comfortable at the head of the table. Natasha almost immediately draped herself half across the back of Steve’s chair, tilting her chin up to whisper in his ear. Bucky watched the motion of her cherry-red lips, followed the curve of her slender white neck down to her bare shoulders. Steve laughed at whatever she was saying. His shoulders dipped and rose, brushing against hers, eyes crinkling at the corners. Bucky felt a twisting in his gut.

 

‘So, James, what do you do with yourself?’ Howard asked after they’d made their way through the appetisers. ‘Steve has been very tight-lipped, won’t tell us anything except that he thinks you’re brilliant.’

 

‘Did he mention he barely knows me?’

 

‘And yet you clearly made an impression,’ Natasha said, draping her hand over Steve’s shoulder.

 

‘I’m afraid your friend might be delusional.’

 

Steve laughed. ‘You’re too modest.’

 

‘Am I?’

 

‘There’s only one important thing,’ Howard said, ‘and that’s whether or not you can make this picture a success. So what d’you say, reckon you can get this film up to scratch?’

 

‘I don’t even know what it’s about.’

 

‘Picture this!’ Howard cried, leaping up from his seat and splaying his hands out. ‘Steve Rogers plays Dirk “Fists” Benton, boxing champion gearing up for what he knows will be his last fight. Nelly here plays Betty, the love of his life, who’s going to leave him if he steps into the ring again. But he’s agreed to throw the fight on the promise that it’ll make him rich and he can finally give Betty the life she deserves. Can he keep the girl while sacrificing his integrity? Or will he walk away from the fight for the love of a good woman? See it all in _Fistful of Love_ , in cinemas now!’ he jabbed the air with his finger, ‘in Technicolor!’

 

He turned expectantly to Bucky.

 

‘That title is just terrible,’ Bucky said. Howard deflated.

 

‘Ok, we can scrap the title. What about the rest?’ He waved his hands in little circles as though to encompass the plot. ‘You’re here to help us find the… verisimilitude!’

 

Bucky sighed. ‘Do you have something I can look over? A script, maybe?’

 

‘I’ll have my secretary bring you a script in the morning. Can you give me your notes by lunch time?’ Howard nodded, pulling a notebook out of his trouser pocket and scribbling something down. ‘We’ll get you out to the set too, of course. They’ll send a car, unless you want to travel with Steve?’ He looked up.

 

‘Don’t you drive?’ Bucky asked, turning to Steve.

 

‘I take the bike sometimes,’ he replied. ‘You’re welcome to ride with me.’

 

Bucky considered for a moment. ‘I think I’ve had enough of being driven around already.’

 

‘Fine, fine, scratch the car. Hm, that gives me an idea…’ He started scribbling even more furiously on the pad of paper. ‘Steve, I’m gonna use your telephone.’

 

He strode from the room without another word. A few moments later, one side of an apparently heated discussion floated back to them from the entryway. Natasha rolled her eyes enormously.

 

‘He’ll come back in an hour and announce he’s invented self-slicing bread,’ she said with a yawn. ‘Steve, I want to dance. Put a record on, will you?’

 

She stood and left the room through another doorway. Steve shook his head and motioned that he and Bucky should follow. They went into a wide lounge, featuring another wall of windows leading onto the garden, with a large, abstract painting taking up much of the opposite wall. The floor was thick and soft with white carpet. A wooden bar took up one corner of the room, with the rest dominated by a comfortable-looking navy and timber lounge suite.

 

Natasha dropped the needle on a record and a popular dance number filled the space with warm sound. She swayed towards them, raising an arm slowly and holding it out to Bucky, turning it so her palm faced him. Her veins were a blue shimmer beneath the pale skin of her wrist. He could smell the rosewater she had dotted there, imagined the scent pulsing as her blood ebbed and flowed in time to the music. He took her reaching hand and she span into him and away, body brushing against his for the barest of moments. The satin crépe of her skirt crinkled as she moved.

 

He could feel Steve’s gaze on them as they swayed together. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and the blue of her dress was the blue of Steve’s eyes. Her lips curved up in a smile and he saw them against Steve’s ear, the way that ear flushed pink, the bob of his throat as he had laughed. Her hair tickled the bare skin of her shoulders and he thought of the muscles moving in Steve’s shoulders as they had fought so many months ago in New York.

 

Natasha twirled against him again, her back pressed flush against his torso, head resting under his chin. He drank in the scent of her hair, musk and copper. Her waspish waist felt so fragile in his hands, and he gripped her tighter for a moment, thinking of how easy she would be to break. She laughed softly, a husky rumble only he could hear.

 

‘Careful, cowboy,’ she whispered, ‘I’m not that sort of girl.’

 

‘What sort of girl _are_ you?’ He span her around, yanking her body against his.

 

‘Not the sort you can handle.’ Her eyes flashed and, without seeming to move, she jabbed the heel of her shoe into Bucky’s instep. He hissed sharply. ‘Oops.’

 

‘Mind if I cut in?’ Steve asked, tapping Bucky on the shoulder.

 

‘Be my guest,’ he said through gritted teeth, dropping Natasha’s waist like she’d just turned into a large spider.

 

Steve made to take Natasha’s hand but, through some bit of deviousness that Bucky didn’t quite manage to follow, she somehow stepped out of the way and tangled them up so that Bucky’s hand now rested on Steve’s waist, and his other hand was in Steve’s.

 

Steve immediately flushed pink, but then his jaw set stubbornly and he started leading Bucky across the floor. Bucky stumbled a little, foot still throbbing, before he settled into the rhythm.

 

‘Why do you get to lead?’ he grumbled.

 

‘You had your turn,’ Steve replied in an oddly strained voice. He swallowed and cleared his throat.

 

Natasha flounced onto a couch, holding a glass of champagne that had materialised from somewhere. Her dress blended into the upholstery, making it look like her head and arms were floating in the air.

 

‘Nelly, you look fantastic!’ Howard cried, sticking his head through the door. ‘Don’t move a muscle, I’ve got a camera in the car.’

 

Bucky dropped Steve’s waist. He turned away and shuffled over to the bar, pouring himself a drink while Howard bustled back in, making a racket.

 

‘Am I that bad a partner?’ Steve asked lightly from his elbow, making him jump.

 

‘It’s not- I’m just not much of a dancer, is all.’

 

‘You danced well enough with Natasha,’ Steve said, tone still light.

 

‘Well, she’s a dame, isn’t she?’ Bucky dropped a chunk of ice into his drink, splashing his knuckles. ‘Besides, I don’t think she took too kindly to my moves there at the end.’

 

‘I _thought_ I saw her tread on you,’ Steve laughed. ‘Don’t take it personal.’

 

‘It’s alright, I deserved it.’ He licked the alcohol off his hand, sucking his knuckle thoughtfully. ‘So, you and her, are you, uh…’

 

‘Involved?’ Steve supplied. He shook his head. ‘Not at the moment.’

 

‘What does that mean?’

 

There was a flash, a pop and a hiss from behind them and Howard swore loudly.

 

‘The studio-‘ Steve looked down at his shoes, clearly uncomfortable. He started fixing a drink, slipping back into that light tone from before. ‘The studio would like us to get engaged. They think it would be good for press. We’d get married right after the film premiers.’

 

‘That’s absurd.’

 

Steve’s jaw set into that stubborn look again. ‘That’s what this industry is, Bucky. My job is to tell stories, both on and off the screen.’

 

‘Tell stories for who?’ Bucky said, voice hard.

 

‘For- for America! For the American people!’ Steve put the bottle down with a thump. ‘Don’t you think they deserve that?’

 

‘You know where your stories got the American people?’ Bucky yanked at the collar of his shirt, tearing the top button open and exposing the bullet scar on his left shoulder. ‘Is that what I deserved? Huh?’

 

‘Bucky, that’s-‘ Steve threw up his hands. ‘I’m just trying to do my job!’

 

‘You’re a dancing monkey, Steve. You really think it’s your job to marry this woman so some bored housewife has something to smile about for half an hour?’ He waved his hand at the couch, then realised for the first time that Natasha and Howard were staring at them.

 

Natasha was smiling slightly as though watching something mildly diverting, while Howard was trying to hold onto the camera and write in his notebook at the same time.

 

‘This is really great stuff,’ Howard said around the pen cap shoved in his mouth.

 

‘Howard…’ Steve sighed heavily, pinching his nose.

 

Natasha stretched languidly and rose, tugging Howard by the elbow. ‘Come on honey, time you drove me home.’

 

‘Aw, hell, I barely got to take any pictures,’ he whined.

 

‘Your job’s in pictures, honey,’ she purred, leading him from the room. She turned, giving them both a long, cool look. ‘Play nice, you two. No one’s going to want to marry him if you ruin his pretty face, James.’

 

She left with a rustle of fabric.

 

Bucky and Steve leaned against the bar, not looking at each other.

 

‘Sorry I ripped your shirt,’ Bucky said finally, fingering the empty buttonhole.

 

‘Sorry for… everything,’ Steve said. ‘I feel like I should spend all my time apologising to you.’

 

Bucky sighed heavily through his nose. ‘I just- after the war, I swore that I would be my own man. That I’d never take orders again. To see you so willing to throw your life away, just to sell tickets to some lousy picture…’

 

‘Hey!’ Steve nudged him with his elbow, grinning. ‘The picture will be good, really good. And I’m not- I’m not throwing my life away.’

 

‘But you’ll marry a woman you don’t love?’

 

‘I do love Natasha,’ he said softly. ‘She’s very dear to me, like a sister.’

 

‘I don’t know how you Hollywood types do things, but in New York we don’t marry our sisters.’

 

Steve huffed a laugh. ‘I just mean, it’s not so bad as you think. And it’s only for a little while. People get married and divorced again every five minutes around here. Besides, the life I want… that’s not something I can have.’

 

‘Why not?’

 

Steve’s face contorted, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. ‘I thought- I think you of all people should understand why.’

 

‘Me “of all people”?’ Bucky repeated. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

 

Steve knocked his drink back and set his empty drink down on the bar. ‘Forget about it. We ought to get some sleep, Howard’s people always come by at the crack of dawn.’

 

He nodded curtly and left, the broken flashbulb crunching under his feet as he crossed the room.

 

***

 

Bucky inched on his stomach through thick mud. Fog and smoke hung in the air, making it solid, getting in his eyes and up his nose. He tried not to cough, not to make a sound, to keep crawling forward even though he couldn’t see, could barely breathe. Every now and then there was a flash of light and a rumble of noise and he was splattered with mud and bits of rock. Suddenly the air cleared and he heard his captain’s shout: he jumped to his feet and ran forward, gun raised, firing at the figures who rose up before him, and the mud he ran in was mixed with blood and guts and it sucked at his knees and pulled him down, down until he was stuck waist deep. He heard a shot fire and a scream and someone fell in front of him; Pete, a kid he’d known from back home, landed in the mud, a hole in his neck. Blood bubbled from his lips and he stared at Bucky, grasping for him. Bucky tried to cover the hole with his hands but blood was pouring out, making it slick and slippery and he couldn’t get a grip, so he squeezed tighter and then he was choking Pete, squeezing the life out of him, and Bucky was screaming his name, screaming so many names, and then he was just screaming, one long, raw sound that hurt his throat until he felt hands grab him and shake. He swung blindly, connecting with something, and someone cussed and grabbed his wrists.

 

‘Bucky, it’s me, wake up,’ a voice said with calm urgency. ‘You’re having a nightmare.’

 

He focused on the hands around his wrists, felt how they were real in a way that Pete’s throat in his hands was not real. He realised he was in a bed, sitting up in a bed with his blankets shackle-tight around his legs. Golden light was spilling through the open doorway, haloing the man who held him.

 

‘Steve,’ he rasped, swallowing against the rawness of his throat.

 

‘Yeah,’ Steve murmured. His thumbs traced absent circles on the back of Bucky’s wrists.

 

‘Did I hit you?’

 

‘Only in the arm,’ he said, then with a soft laugh, ‘not in the moneymaker.’

 

‘Pity,’ Bucky said drily. He pulled gently against Steve’s grip, hands dropping to the bed. Steve let him go but then his hands followed, resting again atop Bucky’s wrists.

 

‘Are you alright?’ Steve asked, his voice so soft it was almost tender. Then he ducked his head, light from the doorway suddenly hitting Bucky’s eyes. He raised it again, a dark silhouette. When he spoke again his voice was more brusque, detached. ‘Do you need a glass of water or something?’

 

Bucky shook his head, trying to shake off the last few dregs of the dream. He was soaked in sweat and it felt like blood. Steve’s hands were a warm, soft weight. He wanted to take them in his, to count each knuckle so he knew they were real.

 

‘I see their faces,’ he said suddenly, without meaning to.

 

‘Whose faces?’

 

‘All of them. All the boys in my unit that didn’t come back. Every fritz whose brains I blasted all over the French countryside.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Every night, I watch them die.’

 

‘Bucky…’ Steve’s voice was tight and dry.

 

‘Never mind,’ Bucky said, pulling his hands away. ‘I’m sorry for waking you.’

 

Steve sat motionless on the edge of the bed. The light from the door made it look like he was glowing, his hair a corona of gold.

 

Bucky felt abruptly stifled. He kicked the blankets off and leapt from the other side of the bed, staggering to the doors to the balcony. He swung them open and stepped out into the air of early morning. The slightest hint of grey was beginning to bleach the horizon. The air chilled the sweat coating his skin and he shivered.

 

He felt Steve’s presence behind him. The heat of a hand hovered over his shoulder, the barest whisper felt through the thin fabric of his shirt. Bucky moved his torso back ever so slightly until the hand rested on him. It drew back sharply.

 

‘Do you want me to go?’ Steve asked quietly.

 

‘I don’t know,’ he whispered in reply.

 

‘You should come away from the balcony,’ he said, and Bucky sucked in a breath as Steve leaned past, brushing against him as he peered out into the darkness. ‘Sometimes there are photographers…’

 

‘Of course there are,’ Bucky muttered. He spun and marched back into the bedroom. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like a moment.’

 

‘Of course.’ Steve strode across the room. He paused in the doorway, a cinematic silhouette. Then he left, closing the door behind him. It clicked shut and Bucky was flooded in blackness.

 

***

 

When Bucky finally went downstairs he found a stack of waffles waiting for him on the dining table, accompanied by a silver coffee set and a fat script leaning against a carafe of orange juice. There was a fountain pen sitting on top of a notepad next to the plate. At the top of the pad was a scribbled message:

_Use this to make your notes. Gone for a run, back soon. –SGR_

 

Bucky scalded his throat by downing a cup of coffee in one gulp, then started flicking through the script. Before he realised what he was doing, the margins were black with notes.

 

Steve clattered into the room, making Bucky jump. He flopped into a chair, wiping his face with a towel. Sweat made a slick sheen on his skin, his thighs and arms glistening. He poured himself a coffee, leaning across to squint at Bucky’s marginalia.

 

‘You’ve been busy.’

 

‘I don’t know who wrote this drivel, but I hope they’ve got a day job and the good sense not to quit it.’

 

Steve laughed loudly. ‘Poor Howard. He was hoping you were some dinky kid ready to be dazzled by the bright lights of Hollywood.’

 

‘Mr Stark clearly doesn’t know many people from Brooklyn.’

 

‘Mr Stark knows a great many people, and none of them are terribly good for him.’ Steve launched himself to his feet. ‘We should get to the studio, can you be ready in fifteen minutes?’

 

He marched from the room without waiting for a reply.

 

***

 

Bucky was dressed in his own clothes, which had been washed and laid out for him; a short-sleeved white shirt, his blue denim waist overalls, and a canvas jacket in inky blue. He went out to the front porch and lit a cigarette, looking up at the sky. It was the fresh-washed blue of early morning. There was already a stickiness to the air, the scent of jasmine a cloying headiness all around. He took a deep drag of the cigarette, blowing smoke slowly through his nostrils.

 

Steve barrelled through the door, dressed in black trousers, a brown leather jacket and heavy black boots. He grinned, tossing Bucky a helmet.

 

‘Nice day for it,’ he said.

 

‘If you say so.’ Bucky mashed the helmet down over his curls. ‘I heard it never rains in L.A.’

 

‘That’s true.’

 

‘So how can you tell when it’s a “nice day for it”?’

 

Steve shrugged and smiled. ‘Shall we?’

 

The motorcycle roared into life beneath them. Bucky quickly learned that Steve rode with little regard for his life or the life of anyone else on the road. He clung on tightly, relishing in the sensation of wind whipping against his face and chest. They leaned together as one around each curve and corner, weaving through traffic and speeding down each straight stretch.

 

They pulled into the studio, parking in a car space marked with a plaque reading _Steven G. Rogers_. Steve cut the throttle and the world seemed suddenly silent. Immediately a bevy of people arrived, dragging Steve away before he’d barely dismounted. Bucky followed along as best he could, but he was overwhelmed by the sensation of extraneousness.

 

Steve was pulled into a room marked ‘Makeup’ and the door was shut in Bucky’s face. Someone who introduced themselves as the assistant something to someone-or-other ushered him down a hall full of costume rails and into a dark warehouse. At the far end was a bright circle of lights. Howard’s voice echoed up to them.

 

‘Where the hell is he? How am I supposed to work under these conditions?’

 

The assistant hurried Bucky towards the lights. Howard was pacing across the set, which depicted a modest office.

 

‘Bucky Barnes!’ he yelled, throwing out his arms in greeting. ‘Did you just get here? Did you come with Steve? Where is that enormous hunk of junk? You’re an hour late!’

 

‘He’s in makeup, I think.’ Bucky pulled the script from his jacket, where it had been kept none the worse for wear for the ride over. ‘I have some notes.’

 

‘Notes? Yes, notes!’ He pulled a cigarette out and placed it in his mouth. An assistant darted forward and lit it. ‘Hit me with it. What did you think?’

 

‘I hope you direct better than you write.’

 

Howard gave a barking laugh. ‘I like that, brutal honesty. We could use more of that around here.’

 

‘If there was more honesty around here you’d all be out of business,’ Bucky remarked drily. ‘I think you might have brought me on a little late in the game.’

 

Howard waved his hand dismissively. ‘I’m bankrolling ninety percent of this thing, the studio knows they can’t complain or I’ll take my money elsewhere.’

 

‘That’s lucky, I suppose.’ He handed the script over. Howard flicked through it quickly, eyebrows shooting up as he took in all the scribbling and crossings-out.

 

‘You’re lucky Nelly likes you, if anyone else gave her this many rewrites at the last minute I think she’d have them killed.’

 

‘Like me, does she?’ Bucky said sceptically. ‘That’s not the impression I got.’

 

‘Don’t let her fool you. She may seem like a stone-cold fox, but really-‘

 

‘That’s exactly what I am,’ Natasha purred, making Bucky jump a foot out of his skin. She squeezed his shoulder and smiled. ‘Don’t you forget it.’

 

‘You’re late too,’ Howard said, wagging an accusatory finger at her.

 

‘Bite me, Stark.’ She flounced onto the stage, perching on the edge of the desk. ‘Where’s my darling fiancé?’

 

Steve appeared out of the shadows just as suddenly as she had. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit and the makeup crew has put hollows in his face, deep shadows under his eyes.

 

‘You look how I feel,’ Bucky joked before he could stop himself.

 

‘I look how you look, pal,’ Steve replied with a pained twist of a smile.

 

‘I got the idea after seeing you last night,’ Howard said chirpily. ‘The studio’s gonna hate it, they don’t want us messing with this guy’s handsome mug, but I said hey, how about some realism? A little honesty, if you will.’

 

Bucky frowned. ‘I can’t help feeling like I’m being insulted.’

 

‘Don’t take it personally, pal. Just think of it as doing your job.’ Howard waved his hands at the crew. ‘Alright, clear the set everyone! Out of the way! Whoops, that means me too.’

 

As Bucky watched, Steve and Natasha transformed. She became smaller, somehow; dressed in her brown housedress and scuffed pumps, she seemed almost to disappear into the set. Steve lost his confident air and seemed to Bucky to break down right in front of him, until he seemed like nothing more than a dejected guy down on his luck.

 

The scene was one in which Natasha’s character was pleading with her husband’s manager to stop the boxing match. The manager was a sleazy caricature, but Steve and Natasha’s performances were amazing. She seemed desperate and sad, while he burned with quiet dignity and glory not yet forgotten. Bucky found himself crossing out most of his notes between each take, scrawling new revisions on the back of each page.

 

***

 

Finally Howard announced it was time for a break. A bevy of crew descended on the set with makeup and refreshments.

 

‘What did you think?’ Steve asked, suddenly bouncing Boy Scout again.

 

Bucky whistled low. ‘You’re good, Rogers. Both of you.’

 

Natasha smiled enigmatically and vanished off into the warehouse somewhere. Steve beamed.

 

‘You really think so?’

 

‘I know so.’ He waved the script. ‘You really made this into something else.’

 

‘Now you’re getting it!’ Howard clapped him on the back. ‘You’re starting to see what we do here.’

 

‘No.’ Bucky shook his head. ‘With decent material, they could be amazing. That’s not what you’re doing.’

 

‘You…’ Howard jabbed him in the chest, ‘are very hostile.’

 

‘What do you care? Aren’t you just here to make money?’

 

‘Money? Boy, I’m making art! And, yes, I’m making money too, but primarily I am making art!’ He jabbed Bucky in the chest again. ‘What have you ever made, boy?’

 

‘Don’t call me boy,’ Bucky growled.

 

‘Why, you don’t like that?’

 

‘We’re the same age,’ he replied through gritted teeth. Howard waved his hand again and Bucky grabbed his wrist. ‘This is all just some big game to you, isn’t it?’

 

‘Life’s a game.’ He yanked his hand away. ‘It’s not my fault if I’m winning and you’re-‘

 

‘Losing?’ Bucky finished. ‘I lost everything while people like you were sitting in your ivory towers, playing your games.’

 

‘Don’t put that shit on me,’ Howard said in a low voice. ‘I did my bit for the war effort. My work put troops in your unit, put bullets in your gun.’

 

‘You think you won the war, sitting here in your studio?’ Bucky hissed. ‘You brainwashed kids into blowing the shit out of each other and gave them the tools to do it with.’

 

‘And what do you think would have happened if I hadn’t? I’ll tell you what would happen: we’d all be talking German now, for starters.’

 

‘You arrogant little-‘ Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. He balled his shaking hands into fists. ‘People died. Because of you.’

 

‘Only one of us standing here has ever killed anyone.’

 

There was a wet crunch and Howard’s nose exploded under Bucky’s fist. Blood roared in his ears and dripped from his knuckles and he marched into the dark of the warehouse and out blinking into the midday sunshine. The commotion on the set died away behind him.

 

He punched the wall of the warehouse, once, twice, startling a gaggle of chorus girls who were walking past. They scurried away, muttering darkly amongst themselves.

 

Bucky leaned his face against the cool wall, holding his bloodied hand to his chest. A shadow fell across him.

 

‘Bucky.’ Steve’s voice was tight, full of concern.

 

‘Point me in the right direction and I’ll start hitchhiking back to New York.’

 

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Howard’s fine, he’ll be twisting this into a story of heroic battle by dinnertime. Just watch, you’ll be three guys with baseball bats before you know it.’

 

‘I don’t know if that makes me feel better.’ He examined his hand; it was shaking so badly it was practically a red blur.

 

Steve reached out and took it, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wrapped it carefully around the broken skin. Blood bloomed through the white linen.

 

‘Bucky, is that- what you said in there…’ he chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. ‘Is that really what you think of me? I know you said it to me when we first met, but do you really believe I’m responsible for people dying because of the films I made?’

 

Bucky sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know. He was right, though.’

 

‘Who, Howard? About what?’

 

‘I’ve killed people, Steve. I don’t know how many.’ He pressed the handkerchief into his ragged flesh, wincing. ‘I was a sniper, I saw their faces most of the time. I wish I could say I remember them all, but I don’t.’

 

‘You were serving your country. No, listen- that may not mean much to you now, but it means something to the people you saved. Howard was right about that too. You killed to save your country.’

 

‘You don’t understand.’

 

‘What don’t I understand?’

 

Bucky slumped against the wall, sliding to the ground. ‘Before the war. One of my first fights. They hushed it up, because they thought I was going to go pro, make them a ton of money…’

 

‘What did they hush up? What are you talking about?’

 

‘I was the young upstart, barely twenty. They put me up against this guy, pushing forty, been in so many fights his face looked like a sack of meat.’ He stared up at the blue, blue sky, eyes watering. ‘It was a fixed match. He was meant to lose, but he wouldn’t go down. I was a kid who’d been told he couldn’t lose. So I just kept hitting him, over and over, and-‘

 

‘Did you kill him?’

 

Bucky nodded. ‘I didn’t know right away. He got up again, walked out of there. I found out months later. Bleeding on the brain, they said. I found out I got the draft the very next day. I figured it was my punishment.’

 

‘You were just a kid. You didn’t know.’

 

‘D’you ever get sick of making excuses for people?’ He thudded the back of his head against the wall. ‘How many people have your characters killed in your films?’

 

Steve shrugged. ‘No idea.’

 

‘Figures. Well, they put a gun in my hand and I thought, hey, I’ve done it once, I can do it again. It was easy after that.’ He dragged the back of his good hand across his eyes. ‘Stopping is harder.’

 

‘Bucky…’ Steve crouched down, steadying himself with a hand either side of Bucky’s head. ‘Are you planning to be a bitter, combative asshole for the rest of your life?’

 

‘Well, I’m not planning on having a very long life, so there doesn’t seem to be much point in changing now.’ He glared at Steve defiantly, Steve whose eyes were as blue as the California sky. ‘Is that going to be a problem for you?’

 

‘Yeah, as a matter of fact, it is.’

 

‘You barely know me, Rogers.’

 

‘I feel like I’ve know you my whole life.’

 

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

 

Steve looked over his shoulder, scanning the surrounding buildings. Then he crushed their faces together in a rough, angry kiss. He drew back quickly, that familiar stubborn set to his jaw.

 

‘Oh.’

 

‘Yeah, “oh”. Now have you let me go and make a damn fool of myself, or are you going to come inside and tell Howard you’re sorry and help us turn this damn picture into something worthwhile?’

 

‘Are you planning on doing that again?’

 

‘Doing what, kissing you?’ Steve scowled and flushed bright red. ‘We can pretend it never happened if it’s all the same to you. Come on.’

 

‘That’s not- I don’t want to do that.’

 

Steve smiled shyly. He stood up and offered his hand. Bucky took it and was yanked roughly upwards, stars dancing before his eyes for a few moments. Steve stomped back into the warehouse and he followed meekly, rubbing his jaw. The kiss was a searing almost-pain on his lips.

 

Howard’s nose was a pulpy mess, stuffed full of cotton gauze. He greeted Bucky with a solemn expression and stuck out his hand. Bucky took it and they shook soberly.

 

‘You’re a hard bastard, Bucky Barnes. Did my face really do that to your hand?’ He nodded at the bloodied handkerchief.

 

‘I, uh, decided to go a couple rounds with the wall as well.’ Bucky flexed his fingers and grimaced.

 

‘I imagine the wall looks a damn sight prettier than I do right now. Tell me, is it true dames like a few scars?’

 

‘Not in my experience.’

 

‘Of course, few enough of them are likely able to get past your terrible personality.’ He grinned.

 

‘That’s probably true.’ Bucky smiled tentatively back.

 

‘Alright you lollygaggers, let’s make a picture!’ Howard yelled, spinning on his heel and waving his arms at the crew. ‘Steve, you’ve got blood on you. Whose blood is that? Don’t say it’s mine, that would be embarrassing. Can someone clean the blood off Steve please? No, wait, leave it, we’ll find a reason for it to be there later. Clear the set!’

 

***

 

By the time they wrapped up filming for the day the sun had almost completely set. One last streak of orange clung to the horizon like a poisonous gas. It was pitch black when they rumbled back up Steve’s driveway.

 

Steve fixed them both a roast beef sandwich for dinner. They ate in the garden in silence, dangling their feet in the swimming pool. When Steve finished eating he stripped down to his undershirt and briefs and slipped into the water. His limbs looked eerie and pale, a ghostly distortion.

 

Bucky removed his waist overalls and shirt and lowered himself into the pool. The water was cool, but not cold. He took a deep breath and sank to the bottom. Steve’s limbs were pale disturbances above him. He looked up and saw the moon, its image a bright wink shuddering in the sky. He waited until his chest started to hurt, then broke the surface with a gasp.

 

‘I was starting to worry,’ Steve said.

 

‘You have to learn not to,’ Bucky replied, ‘especially not about me.’

 

Steve swam tentatively towards him. He spread his arms and Steve swam close, pressing him against the side of the pool.

 

 ‘I’ll try and stop worrying about you if you stay here with me.’

 

‘Our skin will get all weird and wrinkly.’

 

‘In L.A., not in the pool, jackass.’ He pressed himself closer, until there was barely a whisper between their lips. ‘I want you to stay with me.’

 

He closed the space between them for a moment. ‘I want you.’

 

Bucky smiled. ‘Whatever will the papers say?’

 

‘No papers.’ Steve kissed him again, pressing his lips to the curved corners of Bucky’s mouth. ‘Just us.’

 

‘I think you’ve watched a few too many of your own films,’ Bucky whispered.

 

‘Say you’ll stay,’ Steve said, kissing his way along Bucky’s jaw.

 

‘I don’t take orders anymore.’ Steve moved his hips and Bucky groaned involuntarily. ‘You can’t just-‘

 

‘I’m not ordering, I’m asking.’ He pulled back a little, looking at Bucky with a serious expression. The air was uncomfortably cool in the empty space left behind. ‘Please stay.’

 

‘Why don’t you come to New York?’

 

‘If that’s what you want.’ He closed the space again. ‘I’ll follow you, if it’s what you want.’

 

‘Steve…’ Bucky sighed, pushing him reluctantly away. ‘I’ll help you make this film. I’ll even try to do it without hitting anyone. But I think it’s for the best if we leave each other alone after that.’

 

‘Alright.’ Steve’s face slipped smoothly into a neutral expression.

 

‘Alright?’

 

‘If that’s what you want.’

 

Steve climbed out of the pool. He gathered up his clothes and went inside, lighting a cigarette as he went. Bucky was left alone with the reflection of the new moon, the water suddenly as icy as the Arctic.

 

***

 

The film came along haltingly, with Howard showing up at odd hours so he and Bucky could do rewrites. On several occasions Howard had on-set yelling matches with various executives from the studio about the direction things were going, during which Steve always marched Bucky bodily from the vicinity. Mostly, though, Steve left him alone. Bucky felt himself hollowing out again, a surprising realisation given he hadn’t noticed how full he had felt, even if only for a few days.

 

A few days before filming was due to finish, Bucky had an especially vivid nightmare. In it he was behind the barrel of his sniper rifle, firing bullet after bullet into the body of the man he had killed in the boxing match. The body was shredded, a wet lump of blood and splintered bone. All around Bucky people cheered, chanting his name. He pulled the trigger again and the rifle clicked empty. He looked through the scope and the wet lump that had been a man raised the bloody shred of an arm and pointed at him, ruined finger an accusation.

 

He woke screaming on the floor, head bleeding from where he’d bumped it on the nightstand. Steve burst into the room, flicking on the light and grabbing Bucky by the shoulders.

 

‘It’s alright, it’s me, it was just a nightmare, it’s alright, you’re ok…’ he murmured over and over until Bucky’s breathing steadied and he could sit himself up.

 

‘I’m sorry,’ Bucky rasped.

 

‘It’s alright. Let me look at that cut…’

 

Bucky swatted him away. ‘It’s nothing.’

 

‘It doesn’t look like nothing. Wait here.’

 

He disappeared and returned with gauze and a bottle of iodine. ‘Sit still and don’t complain.’

 

He dressed the wound efficiently, then made Bucky get back into the bed.

 

‘Steve…’ Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and gave Steve an imploring look. ‘Stay. Please.’

 

Steve stood poised at the bedside, rocking on his heels. He stared at Bucky for several long moments, then strode suddenly to the doorway. Bucky thought he was going to leave but instead he flicked off the light and returned, lying awkwardly on top of the covers on the very edge of the bed.

 

‘Steve, would you-‘ Bucky reached for him, letting his hand drop onto the pillow.

 

‘Alright.’ Steve climbed under the covers and slid across, wrapping Bucky up in his arms. ‘Just- try and get some sleep.’

 

When he woke again the soft light of early morning was making everything grey. Steve slipped out of the bed and left without a word.

 

***

 

The night filming wrapped Howard threw an enormous party. He forced Bucky into a sleek black suit and dragged him around his enormous house, showing him off to various apparently very important people like a prize heifer.

 

‘Couldn’t have done it without this man, he helped us find the _verisimilitude_ ,’ Howard told them, sloshing his glass of champagne.

 

Bucky finally managed to extricate himself by pretending he had to go to the bathroom. He snatched a bottle of bourbon from a table and found a dark corner that was not already occupied. He titled his head back against the wall and took several long draughts.

 

‘You might want to slow down there, cowboy,’ a voice purred at him. Natasha slid into his shadow.

 

‘Get your own corner,’ he growled.

 

‘I hate these things,’ she said, ignoring him and gesturing to the party. ‘Everyone is always trying to figure you out.’

 

‘Has anyone managed? To figure you out, I mean.’

 

‘Steve has. He knows me better than most.’ She offered him a cigarette before setting one of her own in a long, gold holder. ‘I know him quite well too.’

 

‘Yeah?’ He pulled out a book of matches. The phosphorous glow cast strange shadows on his hands. ‘That’s real nice for you.’

 

‘You make him happy, you big lug. Or you could.’ She rolled her eyes at him. ‘I’m asking, as his friend, that you let it happen.’

 

‘You’re a smart woman, you really think I’d make him happy?’ He gestured hopelessly at himself. ‘He doesn’t need… this.’

 

‘I have every confidence in you,’ she lied smoothly.

 

‘You’re a wonderful actress,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Doesn’t it bother you that you’re meant to be marrying him?’

 

She stared disinterestedly at her engagement ring. ‘Not terribly.’

 

‘If Steve’s figured you out, then he’s a man in a million.’

 

‘He really is. Speak of the devil,’ she murmured, gesturing across the room to where Steve was ploughing towards them, his expression stormy.

 

‘So this is where you’re hiding,’ he grumbled, wedging himself into the corner.

 

‘I’m supposed to be hiding here on my own, y’know,’ Bucky said. ‘What’s got you so riled up?’

 

Steve shook his head and snatched the bottle of bourbon, tossing back his head and taking a deep slug.

 

‘You two are made for each other,’ Natasha said drily, rolling her eyes.

 

‘Aw, lay off,’ he snarled. ‘These bastards-‘

 

‘Language, Steve, you’re in the presence of a lady.’ She smirked. Steve sneered. ‘Well if you’re going to be rude, I’m going to go and find someone more interesting to talk to.’

 

She wandered off, looking entirely unshaken. Steve thumped his forehead against the wall.

 

‘She’s going to be making that up to me for ages now.’

 

‘I’m sure. What have these bastards done?’

 

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, breathing heavily through his nose. ‘The studio has been hatching a plot.’

 

‘They’re not going to make me marry anyone, are they?’ Steve looked up at him with a woeful expression. ‘Steve, no. I am not marrying anyone.’

 

‘It’s not that, it’s- they want to have a fight at the premier, me against some champion boxer. They were even talking about trying to bring Joe Louis out of retirement.’ He shook his head, lip curling. ‘Obviously Howard tried to talk them out of it, but somehow your name got mentioned…’

 

‘They want us to fight?’ Bucky felt like his blood had suddenly been replaced with ice water.

 

‘They want us to fight, and me to win. It wouldn’t look good to have their leading man defeated by-‘ he looked at Bucky guiltily.

 

‘Defeated by a scruffy shell-shocked greaser.’ He took the bottle back and swigged. ‘What happens if I refuse? Which I intend to, by the way.’

 

‘Either they find someone else for me to fight, someone who’ll have to be told about-‘ he rubbed is chest ‘-or they put on a match with two professionals and maybe get an honest result. But- I’m going to murder Howard.’

 

‘What?’

 

‘He invited journalists to this little soiree, because he is a colossal idiot, and they witnessed this whole song and dance. If I’m not in the fight now, there’ll be questions.’

 

‘Has his nose finished healing? Because I’m of a mind to break it again.’

 

‘Speak of the devil.’ Howard was making his way over to them, followed by a man with PRESS written on a piece of cardboard stuck in his fedora.

 

‘For Christ’s sake, does no one understand the point of hiding in the corner?’ Bucky grumbled.

 

‘Gentlemen! I was just telling this fine young man all about this little fight the studio’s putting together. Let’s help drum up some interest, shall we? Take a few pictures?’ Howard tugged at his collar nervously, eyeing Bucky up and down. ‘This one has a mean left hook, I can tell you that much. A real wildcard.’

 

‘I’m sensing you’ve been on the receiving end of that left hook?’ The journalist’s pen poised eagerly on his pad.

 

‘We, uh, went a few rounds in the training ring, that’s all,’ Howard said, smiling tightly. ‘The important thing is that this fight’s going to be spectacular, really spectacular. Almost as good as the film, though of course that should be the focus of your piece. Don’t spend too much time on the sideshow and none on the main attraction, eh?’

 

Bucky smiled, wide and lazy, clenching his hands to stop them shaking. ‘Any time you want to go another round, Mr Stark…’

 

‘Alright, alright, let’s move along, shall we?’ Howard shooed the journalist along. ‘I just need a moment with my star.’

 

Steve and Bucky stood shoulder to shoulder with their arms folded. They stared down at Howard, who tugged at his collar again.

 

‘Sorry gentlemen, but we can’t nix this now, you know how it is…’

 

‘Who suggested this idea in the first place?’ Bucky asked, voice low and dangerous.

 

‘Some guy from the studio, what’s his name… that’s him over there,’ Howard said, gesturing vaguely at a stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair.

 

Bucky lunged forward, stalking toward him. Steve made a grab for him but he shrugged it off. The bourbon swirled in his head and his stomach, boiling in his veins.

 

‘We’re not just playthings, you know,’ he half-shouted, jabbing the man in the chest. The man stepped back, face quickly regaining composure. ‘I’m not just here to perform for you.’

 

The man raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. ‘My boy, this is Hollywood. That’s exactly why you’re here. It’s why we’re all here.’

 

Bucky ground his teeth. ‘This fight is a pointless publicity stunt.’

 

‘It’s not pointless,’ the man said slowly, ‘it’s for publicity.’

 

Bucky flexed his hand. The flesh had healed over his knuckles, leaving pearlescent pink marks that would soon fade into the existing knots of scar tissue. There were people all around them, looking on with interest. A hand gripped his shoulder and he turned to see Steve standing beside him with a grim expression. In his dark suit with his serious eyes Bucky could see why he’d been splashed across the poster for countless war films. He looked like a man people wanted to follow.

 

‘You’d best save some of that intensity for the ring,’ the man drawled, ‘and perhaps afterwards we can talk about getting you in front of the camera, hm? You could make a lot of money with looks like yours. All you need is a little polish.’

 

Bucky turned to Steve and whispered tightly, ‘How much trouble will I be in if I punch this man?’

 

‘Best not find out,’ Steve said, pulling him gently away and making their apologies. Bucky could feel the man’s eyes boring into him as they left the room.

 

They went through the front door and past the driveway, making their way down the lawn. The lights and voices melted away and they were alone under the waning moon.

 

‘Well, now I’m itching for a fight.’ Bucky ducked and wove on unsteady feet.

 

‘It sounds like you’ll get it soon enough.’ He lit two cigarettes, face lighting up like a death mask in the flare of the match. ‘I’m sorry for everything I’ve dragged you into.’

 

‘You’re neither the first nor the worst.’ He took Steve’s offered cigarette. ‘I still don’t understand why, though.’

 

‘The first time I saw you, in that factory in Brooklyn…’  Steve was silent for several moments. ‘That very first time, I thought, “There’s someone I would follow to the ends of the earth.” That sounds corny as all hell, but- well, the thought of you wouldn’t let me alone.’

 

‘That definitely sounds like a bad line from one of your movies.’

 

Steve laughed, smoke puffing from between his lips. ‘I’m trying to be sincere.’

 

‘You’re telling me it was love at first sight?’ Bucky kept his tone light, but his hands trembled. ‘I hate to tell you this, but that’s just something invented by Hollywood to sell pictures.’

 

‘Bucky…’ Steve reached out and fumblingly took his hand. ‘When this is all over, the picture… I’m going to come back to New York with you.’

 

‘I’m not asking you to do that.’

 

‘Did I say you were?’ It was too dark to see, but Bucky knew Steve had that stubborn look on his face. ‘You need me, even if you don’t want me.’

 

‘I never said I didn’t want you,’ Bucky said softly, ‘I just- you know what I am. You know I can’t sleep through the night because of the things I’ve done. I’m a dead man walking, Steve.’

 

‘I know what you are.’ He squeezed Bucky’s hand. ‘I’m going back inside to rescue Natasha. Don’t wait up.’

 

Bucky watched him fade away into the light, still staring after him when his cigarette burned down to ash.

 

***

 

Bucky stood in the alley behind the theatre, trying to calm his nerves with a cigarette. The studio had dressed him in a red satin robe with his name stitched on the back in black thread. He wore it open, the night air cooling his anxious sweat against his skin. A tired-looking woman with a clipboard stuck her head through a window above him.

 

‘Mr Barnes? Oh good, there you are. Come inside, please, it’s about to start.’

 

He crushed the cigarette butt under his heel and went inside. It was bright and hot and crowded in the theatre. Immediately he was ushered to the entrance to the ring. He could hear the crowd roaring inside. A drop of sweat rolled from the back of his neck down his spine.

 

He was nudged forward and he strode up the aisle, slipping through the ropes into the ring. He hadn’t been in a real ring in a long time, but he found he still knew what to do to make the crowd shout his name. He slipped the satin robe off and someone collected it.

 

It took him a few moments to realise that the man facing him from the other corner wasn’t Steve. He looked close enough, the same height and build, the same blonde hair and square jaw, but he carried himself differently. This man seemed coiled like a snake, balling his energy in his centre, ready to strike. He was dancing on his feet, hopping from one to the other.

 

Bucky stuck his head through the ropes, looking for a familiar face. Howard pushed his way through the crowd, looking agitated.

 

‘You wanna tell me what the hell is going on?’ Bucky growled at him.

 

‘I swear, I had nothing to do with this. Steve is fuming, they’ve locked him in his dressing room.’ Howard reached out and grasped his wrist. ‘I’m sorry, Bucky. Last minute thing, they didn’t want to risk him having a black eye in the premier photos.’

 

‘Howard, I am not fighting this guy.’ The crowd was getting restless. There were a few scattered boos. ‘Put a stop to this. Now.’

 

‘It’s fine. Just do what you were going to do. I’m sure this guy knows the score.’ He looked sceptically at Bucky’s opponent. ‘Make it clean, make it quick, then go get your monkey suit on.’

 

Bucky bit down on the bevy of curses he was about to hurl as the announcer called for the match to start.

 

As soon as they started facing off Bucky knew he was going to lose, no matter if he was planning for it or no. The other man hit him with a volley of shots to the ribs that he was barely able to block, leaving him winded. He was a good back alley fighter, a champion in close quarters, but this man was younger, and lighter on his feet, and better. He danced out of the way of each swipe, coming back with two more of his own. The gloves made him fearless, and Bucky was struggling to block hit after hit aimed square at his face.

 

Then he missed a feint and a fist caught him on the jaw, lifting him off his feet and sending him hard against the ropes. The crowd roared as he tried to pull himself up, failed, fell to his hands and knees. He spat out a chunk of blood and tooth.

 

Bucky staggered to his feet, leaning heavily on the ropes. He managed to turn and raise his fists again. There was a surge of noise and a glove sailed at him and everything went black.

 

***

 

Bucky woke up to soft music and hushed voices. His head was in someone’s lap, and there was a hand in his hair. His face felt about three sizes too big and throbbed like someone had transplanted his heart into his skull. He groaned and the voices stopped.

 

‘Bucky?’ Steve’s face swam into focus above him. ‘You awake?’

 

‘You’re an asshole, Steve Rogers,’ Bucky said, except his mouth was filled with gauze so it sounded more like _Yooh a ashshooh Shteeh Rogersh_.

 

‘I think it's safe to say he's alright,’ Natasha’s voice demurred from somewhere to his left.

 

Bucky tried to turn to look at her and was hit with a wave of white pain. He crushed his eyes closed and waited for it to pass.

 

‘What happened?’ he finally managed weakly.

 

Steve’s fingers clenched in his hair, making him wince. ‘When I get my hands on them…’

 

‘As soon as they let Steve go he went straight to you. It’s a small miracle he didn't leave an idiot-shaped hole in the wall,’ Natasha said with a yawn. ‘By all accounts he found you lying in a pool of your own blood.’

 

‘Shteve, my hair…’

 

‘Sorry, sorry. I just can't believe they'd do that to you.’

 

‘Hoh-‘ he pulled the gauze out of his mouth, gagging slightly. ‘How was the movie?’

 

‘I didn’t see it. Like Nat said, as soon as they'd finished the press stuff I came to find you.’

 

‘How good of you.’

 

‘They _locked me in a room_ , Bucky.’ Even blurry, Steve’s glare was fearsome.

 

‘The film was brilliant, if you still care,’ Natasha drawled, sounding quietly thrilled. ‘It really is a wonderful picture. Of course, they're going to make Howard recut the whole thing.’

 

‘What? Why?’

 

‘He’s been accused of making communist propaganda. He showed a different version to the one the censors saw. Apparently the film was a little too critical of American values for their tastes.’ Bucky could _hear_ her self-satisfied grin. ‘You’re a bad influence, Mr Barnes.’

 

‘Don’t they send people to prison for that kind of thing?’

 

‘Howard’s not going to prison, he's too rich. We _will_ all have to do some fluffy patriotic number to appease the government. Me especially, we can't have them suspecting I'm a Russian spy.’ Bucky saw a blur of movement in the corner of his eye that was her standing. ‘I’m going home, I need my beauty sleep.’

 

Bucky heard the receding clack of her heels on the floor. Steve’s fingers were gentle in his hair, smoothing the strands back against his scalp. He drifted pleasantly for a while.

 

 ‘Don’t go to sleep, you probably have concussion,’ Steve murmured gently.

 

‘I’m glad it wasn’t you,’ he said.

 

‘What are you talking about?’

 

‘I’m glad I didn’t have to fight you. It was real, not just one of your pantomimes.’ He pushed himself upwards, fighting back a wave of nausea. ‘I want-‘

 

‘What do you want?’ Steve asked tightly.

 

‘Aw, hell, Steve, it sounds so corny.’

 

Through his swollen eyes Bucky could see Steve grin. ‘That’s alright. Go ahead.’

 

‘I want- I want to fight your battles for you.’

 

‘You think I can’t do it myself?’

 

‘I think-‘ He sighed. ‘Fighting is what I’m good at. It’s what I have to do. But I didn’t deserve doing it for glory, and I hated doing it for my country, and I sure as hell wasn’t getting anywhere doing it for myself. So let me do it for you.’

 

Steve laced their fingers together. ‘You want to fight for me?’

 

‘Mhm.’ He squeezed Steve’s hands. ‘I’ve decided I can fight for this.’

 

‘I should have punched you in the face ages ago.’

 

‘I swear to the Virgin Mary, if you make me regret opening my fat mouth-‘

 

Steve kissed him, and they were silent, and Bucky felt alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous love and thanks to the RBB team, especially the mods for being so patient and understanding with the various life crises I have had over the course of this challenge (no internet! house-hunting! homelessness!). Thank you also to Laisserais for creating the beautiful artwork, I'm sorry for not doing it justice. 
> 
> Check them out here: http://laisserais.tumblr.com/


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